


Your Cooking Sucks!

by Likea_boss9987



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America can't read the atmosphere for shit, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Scones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-18 18:21:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2357681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likea_boss9987/pseuds/Likea_boss9987
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America hates England's cooking. He really does. But, wait—"Who did you make those scones for if not me?" USUK</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Warning(s): Characters might be OOC
> 
> Author's Note: I've been getting very interested in Hetalia recently, especially USUK, and so here is a silly two-shot. P.S. America really doesn't know how to read the atmosphere; but you probably knew that already.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything; Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. Also, I'm not American or British so anything regarding these two countries should not be taken too strictly.

_Part One_

America hated England's cooking. Honest. It was an unsaid truth. Nobody liked England's cooking so it wasn't as if it was some big surprise. The only reason why he even ate England's scones whenever some were offered to him was because they were usually given at the most convenient time—when he was hungry. And no, unlike what England thought, he wasn't  _always_ stuffing himself like a 'gluttonous swine'. He just had a healthy appetite, not like England who ate such small portions that America sometimes wondered how it could possibly satisfy him.

But perhaps that was due to the fact that England couldn't even stomach his own cooking.  _That must be it,_ America thought, and it felt like he had just unearthed the secret to the world's most unsolvable mysteries.  _But he still eats it to keep his pride. Poor thing! Subjected to endless torture because he's too proud to admit that he sucks at cooking._

America reflected on this, pity bubbling inside of him. Sad, sad England. Never knowing the pleasures of real food…someone needs to save him from such a depressing lifestyle. Wait—he could do it! After all, what else would a hero do but to save the poor damsel in distress, even if it was from hers—himself?

"Don't worry England. Your hero will save you!" America shouted in determination, before shoving a burnt scone in his mouth.

Don't look at him like that—it was a gift from England and he just wanted to rid of it as soon as possible. Seriously.

* * *

"He-llo! Your hero is here!" America pressed the England's doorbell furiously—he preferred knocking but the last time ended with the door having to be fixed and an hour long lecture from England on how he should learn to control his strength—greeting England with his signature Hero Pose and charming smile as soon as the door was yanked open. England scowled, like he always did, though America could tell he wasn't upset. Who was upset at getting a visit from a hero, after all?

England raised one of his abnormally large eyebrows. "Wait—why are you here America? We didn't schedule any plans, I'm most certain."

England's forehead creased a little, as if he were trying to recall. America thought it was a cute look on the smaller male. Not that that thought would ever,  _ever_ come out of his mouth.  _Ever._

"Haha! No, no. No appointments! But 'tis still important! I've learnt something major and absolutely need to fix it. It's just who I am, don't need to thank me for this—"

"What are you blabbering on about you fool?" England cut America off, not understanding a single word coming out of the American's mouth.

"Well  _duh._ I've finally figured out why you're so short—"

"I'm not bloody sho—"

"—and scrawny. Because you don't eat enough! And—"

"Hey! All because I prefer not to be morbidly obese—"

"—that's obviously because you don't eat much besides your own cooking and we all know why  _that's_ not a smart option—"

"What are you implying you gi—"

"—and I'm here to fix your taste buds and show you what's real food!" As soon as America finished his last word, he pulled out a hotdog and hamburger stand, as well as a slushie machine from his right and started to bring them into England's house.

England, in the meantime, was feeling quite appalled. His eyes were bulging (how did he  _miss_ those humongous objects) and he couldn't seem to be able to get the angry words out of his throat, so choked by his indignation he was.

Oh wait, now he could.

"Wait just a minute you damn git! You don't just burst in here all willy-nilly and dump all this on me. Stop!" England tried to block America from entering his house any further but America easily shoved him to the side and persisted onwards. And he did it as if it didn't take any effort. Cursing America's idiotic strength under his breath, England continued with his rant.

"Hey you daft fool, didn't I just tell you to stop it? Our special relationship does  _not_ give you free rein to just burst into my house—"

"Free country!" America sung, having already reached England's kitchen and dumping all the things he'd brought along down.

"Not  _your_ country," England argued, dismaying at the mess America just made of his kitchen. He shivered. All that fat, greasy food in his kitchen. Yes, America usually brought over hamburgers and other fatty treats whenever he came to visit—always resulting with England wondering where he had gone wrong in raising him—but this,  _this_ was an abomination.

"Aw…England, you know you're  _my_ country," America replied with a flirtatious wink. Feeling his cheeks burning red, England reflexively turned to face the other direction.

"Uh…well…that is to say—" England stuttered.

"The gentleman's flustered! Hey everyone, I managed to make the perfect gentleman fluster!" America teased as he pulled out a hotdog from the hotdog stand and dangled it in England's face.

"Stop it! And get that out of my face you wanker!" England cried out, pushing the disgusting processed meat out of his face. "What do you think you're  _doing_?"

America stared at England as if he was dumb and said, "Well  _duh._ I explained it to you just now. Dude, I'm trying to get you to eat better food."

"Better? You call that greasy mess in your hand better than my own food?"

"Hey! Don't diss the hotdog. And yeah, definitely better. I just thought if I introduced you to a better choice you would realise what you're missing and decide to stop poisoning yourself with the nasty shit you call food."

"You love my food!"

"…"

"You've always loved my food! When you were a child you would always ask for more, whenever I came back you would request my cooking…" England sighed, reminiscing fondly.

"I'm sorry to say this dude but I've always lied about liking your cooking." England shot a glare at America, all the while trying to conceal the hurt on his face. Sure all the other countries have told him about his 'terrible' cooking but somehow it was different coming from America.

America was the one who was supposed to like his cooking. He's  _always_ enjoyed it, why would he even say otherwise now?

"Yeah," America continued, oblivious to England's feelings. "I mean, if you actually believe that anyone in their right mind would willingly eat your cooking then you must be a bit coo-coo. The coo-coo king. But don't worry! That's why I'm here—to be your hero!"

"I don't need saving, you utter arse! To think, I always give you my scones—that I made for myself, not for you, I just make too much, so don't be mistaken—and you have the  _nerve_ to tell me that you don't enjoy them. Ungrateful git!" England ranted, his entire body stiffened and defensive. Stupid America, why couldn't he just take the hint and  _shut the hell up._ England was sorely tempted to let America taste a Knuckle Sandwich and see how he liked it.

_Lied about liking your cooking…_

America's words echoed in England's mind and coupled with the fact that it was said so nonchalantly, it felt like a bullet through the heart.

 _Damn you America. Why must you make me feel this way?_ England bit his lips and clenched his eyelids shut, lest he began tearing up in front of that insensitive git.

"Get out," England demanded. He won't let America see him crying. Even if he was his lover, America  _never_  missed a chance to poke fun at him and he didn't feel like giving the American the satisfaction.

"Whoa," America said, raising his arms in mock surrender. "Don't need to be so extreme, dude. I came all the way, off the map, to help you. So you can't just chase me away. That'll be mean, y'know?"

"I don't care," England said, turning his back to America. His face felt wet. " _Go_ America.  _Now._ You weren't invited here in the first place so just leave, won't you?"

Without waiting for an answer, England stalked off, letting America see himself out. It was such an ungentlemanly thing to do that but surely it was better than breaking down in front of America.

England was beginning to rethink a few things as he walked away…

* * *

America didn't understand. It has been a week since the day he decided to free England from his horrid cooking and England was avoiding him. He didn't answer any of America's phone calls, snap chats, tweets… _nothing!_ Even when America took it upon himself to visit him once again to ask what was going on, England didn't even open the door to ask him to "sod off!"

It was weird and uncomfortable. What exactly had he done wrong to warrant such treatment?

When America had decided to visit England and improve his sense of taste, he had expected it to end in something like this:

_Oh my goodness America! I am ever so sorry for doubting your country's splendid cuisine. To think, I have been eating inferior food all my life and even nagged at you for eating such delightful treats. Jolly good, jolly good. I will never doubt you again. You're my hero America! Bloody brilliant, you are!_

Or something like that, anyway. British people spoke like that, right? Yeah, probably.

But instead of that beautiful expectation, he got this:

 _You bloody twit! Twat! Prick, prat, plonker! Wanker! Hob-knocker! [Insert more weird British insults here] You've always been so ungrateful since the American Revolution—which I know was my fault but fuck that—and I know you're trying to help me now but I'm going to pretend I don't need a hero 'cause I'm a gentlemen and all that jazz. Also, I'm disregarding your kindness and sending you out of my house this instance! Ta-ta and_ sod off!

Or at least, America was sure that was what went down.

"Drop dead England," America muttered under his breath. "I was just trying to help you out."

And to make it worse, England hasn't sent him his weekly supply of toxic scones and tea, which England had started since he said it would help him "lose some of the bloody weight", or something along those lines. Honestly, he didn't understand half of what England said these days. Actually, maybe it was because he wasn't really listening and was thinking about all the other fun things they could be doing—

Oh he was digressing. Point was, England wasn't going to forgive easily.

Damn it.

Never mind that for now. Japan just sent him that new video game that he'd been dying, literally  _dying_ , to play. It was life and death here. But he promised himself that he would make it up to England—for whatever he had done wrong, with England you never knew. He would go all-out romantic (Hollywood baby!) since he knew England was such a romantic with his Shakespeare and all.

 _At the next World Meeting,_ he thought to himself sternly.  _For sure. In two weeks time. Yeah, I can swing that._

America's eyes drew closer to that awesome new video game in his hands.

_I'll do it…after just one quick game. Definitely! And England will love it and forgive me._

And with that, America ordered a shitload of hamburgers, grabbed a few bags of chips from the kitchen, as well as three huge bottles of diet coke (it was true—he  _was_ on a diet), and prepared for his game night.


	2. Part Two

_Part Two_

One game turned to two, two games turned to four, and in the end, America only managed to get out of his game haze after a week and a half. Which sucked.

 _Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!_ America thought as he paced around the room—dammit, he was too young to start the habit of pacing, that was for old people like England! —wracking his brain for good ideas.  _I knew I should have stopped after the seventy-ninth replay! Now what am I supposed to do?_

 _Okay, relax America, relax,_ he attempted to calm himself.  _What's there to be worried about? You still have three days to plan every meticulous detail, and bring it all to fruition and pray England will accept the apology. See, nothing to fear! You can do this. You're the hero, after all!_

Yeah that was right! He was the hero, wasn't he? He could totally arrange everything in a matter of days.

Only thing now—what was he going to do? What would be so romantic, the very epitome of romance mind you since England would probably not accept anything less, that it would make England immediately jump into America's arms in ready forgiveness?

Hm…

As America's forehead creased in thought, his eyes unconsciously crept towards his movie cabinet and towards the compartment that held all the popular romance movies that had ever came out.

Of course! Fucking Eureka! The way to romantic success was to  _watch_ those cheesy lovey-dovey movies and  _observe_ what the best methods are. And of course they would be the right ones since they  _were_ made by Hollywood, after all. Hollywood was never wrong!

America hesitated a bit though. He'd never really touched the movies in the 'Romance' part of his movie cabinet before, 'cause they weren't his thing. He was a horror/action/adventure type of manly man. Those cheesy flicks were for lovesick teenage girls or those super sensitive effeminate guys…like England.

But desperate times call for desperate measures! If this was what it took to get England talking to him again then so be it.

America would collect all the most amorous things and combine them into a super mix of epic romantic-ness. It'd be awesome!

* * *

"So, was it good?" England asked with a hopeful expression on his face. His companion said nothing and blanched a little, turning his head away from the scone in front of him.

England sighed. Back to trying again.

* * *

After watching about twenty or so romance movies, America had gotten a general idea of what he should do to win back England's favour.

To be honest, he had skipped almost every part of the movies because they were so  _boring._ Who in the right mind could sit through them? With no explosions or awesome car shots, what was the point?

Anyway, that wasn't important. The important thing was that he knew what to do now and to complete his ultimate romance value package plan; he just needed to make the arrangements.

Easy.

See? The hero could do it!

* * *

England hated to do this. He really did. It was killing his very British essence just contemplating the idea. But he had to do this. To improve so America would shut that bloody trap he called a mouth and like his cooking again.

Or not again, since the larger nation had clearly stated that he had always hated England's cooking.

Whatever. It didn't affect him that much. No, it did not.

England clenched his fists.  _Stiff upper lip, damn it,_ he told himself.

He pressed the doorbell. Multiple times. Aggressively.

What? He had to vent his anger somewhere.

"Je veins!" a voice finally called out and England could hear footsteps approaching the door.

And as the door swung open, England braced himself for the incoming ridicule he would receive for his request.

* * *

"Flowers; check. Chocolate; check. Heart-shaped balloons; check…" America muttered under his breath as he ticked off items from his list. Said list included fifty different separate things—half taken from movies, the other half from America's brilliant mind. There  _would_ have been fifty-one things but America had decided to forgo the fireworks since he noticed England never really liked the sight of them, especially on America's birthday.

See? Unlike what some people believed, America knew stuff.

There was a problem though. About four-fifth of his list had to be imported from other countries and apparently, all because he was the personification of the United States did not mean he could twist fabric and time to make the things come faster, or have priority over other orders.

America pouted. If Superman could change time, why couldn't he? It wasn't fair, now his super ultra surprise for England would just be a mediocre deal.

 _Stupid, but totally awesomely rad, video game,_ America cursed in his mind. If it weren't for that he would definitely have enough time to complete everything.

It's okay though. Everything would be fine. This would have to do. Hopefully England would accept it and America could make up for it some other time.

The hero always succeeded after all. Right?

* * *

"I'm doing it correctly!" England shouted.

" _Non, non._ You're doing it completely wrong!" France yelled in reply. "You used the wrong flour, sifted it with sugar instead of salt and skipped instructions one to three!"

England wanted to cry out in frustration. So what if he had used the wrong flour? He had put in enough of the right one to cover it. And sifting sugar instead of salt was not a mistake. He  _meant_  to do it. Of course he did!

And he could always do those missing steps later.

"Belt up, would you? I'm trying my best, you twat!" England pointed his whisk threateningly at France, though he probably didn't look that menacing with his frilly pink apron with embroidered unicorns on.

France quirked an eyebrow, an amused smile on his face. "But you were the one who asked for my help."

"T-That—" England stuttered, blushing angrily and hating the fact that he had resorted to getting the stupid frog's help in the first place.

"Indeed," France continued, ignoring England. "And if you are to improve, you have to follow what I say."

"I—"

"Will you do as I say?" France asked.  _He's enjoying this, the wanker,_ England thought darkly. He scowled and gritted his teeth.

" _Fine."_

* * *

Everything was ready. America couldn't help but bounce in his bed in anticipation. Tomorrow England would forgive him and everything would be great again.

His Forgive-me-for-whatever-I-did-wrong plan was ready to go. America fist pumped the air before falling back onto his pillow with a proud smile on his face.

He could totally do this.

* * *

"Does it taste good this time?" England asked, praying inwardly that it did. He followed everything that France told him to do—and it had been so, so painful to have to obey that utter prick—and if it still turned out to be bad, he had no idea what he would do.

His companion hesitated for a moment, slowly sniffing the scone offered, before taking a bite and mewing happily, as if giving England his approval.

England cheered and bent down to pat his cat's head affectionately, allowing him to nuzzle on his hand. "Thank you, Crumpet. I'm glad you liked it."

* * *

England walked into the World Conference room with the packet of scones in his hands, feeling quite nervous. No, this wasn't the batch he was planning to give America. This was for France to test. It was the final obstacle. Unlike his beloved cat, France would not hesitate to tell him if the scones turned out successful or was 'total poison'. And he supposedly had 'finer' taste buds. England scoffed. That was just another way of saying that France was a fucking pretentious wanker.

But, England had to let it go through France first. He would not risked getting hurt by America again if the scones turned out to taste unsavoury. France's words couldn't do much damage—if any at all—but America, as seen before, had the power to bring England to tears with his blunt and oblivious words.

Striding into the room, England saw that France wasn't there yet. No surprise there, the prat was probably still having his so-called 'beauty sleep'.

England continued scanning the room but was soon shocked out of it as a hand landed  _hard_  on his shoulder.

"Hey England!" the familiar obnoxious voice called form behind him.

Oh how he had missed that annoying voice. England refused to show it though. Not yet. He had to make sure his scones tasted perfect and make America eat his words first.

"What?" England grumbled. "What do you want, America?"

"I missed you!" America said, and he sounded so damn  _eager_  and  _sincere_. "I'm sorry for whatever I did to make you upset. Could you follow me for a short while? I have an apology surprise for you."

America went to tug on his hands, but paused as he encountered the paper bag. England quickly tore the bag out of America's reach.

"Not now, America," England said. "After the meeting,  _maybe._ "

"Aw come on! I put a lot of effort into it. Why not now?" America whined, and then his eyes lowered to look at the bag. "And what's in the bag?"

* * *

"None of your business!" England snapped. But before he knew it, America snatched the bag out of his hands.

"You brought me scones!" America cried out happily, and  _no_ it wasn't because he enjoyed them. It was because he was hungry, okay? He only had about twenty McMuffins for breakfast today, obviously not enough for a grown country like himself.

Plus England making scones for him again meant that he was already planning to forgive him. Which was freaking awesome!

America was about to pop one into his mouth—though it looked different…not as black—when England smacked it out of his hand.

"They're not for you! Don't eat one without permission, you git."

What? America couldn't believe his ears.

The scones weren't for him? Then—then who were they for?

"Who did you make those scones for if not me?" America demanded without thinking. He needed to know. Because as far as he knew, England only ever made scones for  _him._ Only  _him,_ dammit, and it should stay like that no matter how much America disliked the taste of the burnt scones.

England didn't answer him, he didn't need to. 'Cause a voice behind America answered for him.

"I believe those scones are for  _moi,"_ France said as he plucked the bag of scones out of America's hands, an evil smirk on his face. "Right,  _Angleterre?_ "

"Don't call me that! I hate your frog language," England seethed, before calming his composure and turning away from both America and France. "And  _yes_ they're for you, you already know that you bloody plonker."

America was shocked to say the least. England made those scones for France?  _France?_ Since  _when?_ Didn't they  _hate_ each other? Weren't those scones only made especially for  _America?_

What. The. Fuck?

"What the fuck?" His words echoed his thoughts exactly. "You're joking, right England? You didn't really make those scones for  _France,_ did you? Tell me you're joking."

England gave him an annoyed but confused look. "I made them for France. So what? Like I said before, it's none of your bloody busi—"

He was interrupted by America's hands, which had flown to his shoulders and was starting to shake him furiously.

"You can't do this to me!" America yelled, and he knew he was creating a scene but screw everything. He wasn't going to lose England to France just because of some stupid mistake he didn't realise he had made. Fat chance he would  _ever_ allow that to happen. "You can't just ignore me for a month and end up leaving me for France! You  _can't_. I stayed up for two nights to plan an apology surprise for you! You can't leave me!"

* * *

Meanwhile, England was scrambling in America's hold, trying his darndest to escape but failing miserably.

 _Damn his strength,_ England cursed in his mind. Across from him he could see France standing beside America aiming a devious smirk his way.  _That slippery, slimy bastard—_

In addition to all of that, England had absolutely  _no_ idea what America was going on about. Him and that snail-slurper? Together? How the hell had America arrived at  _that_ conclusion?

Uh, he wanted to barf. And that was only partly because America was jerking him around at racecar speed.

"Stop it!" England shouted, finally getting tired of being shaken as if he were a bloody milkshake. "Let me go! Also, stop being so damn dramatic! I never said I was hooking up with France! How could you even  _think_  that?"

America stopped shaking him once he had mentioned that he wasn't leaving him for France. He whispered, "But then why did you make him those scones…?"

"How does me making scones for France equate to me being interested in him in any way?" England retorted. "I cannot even  _conceive_ of why you thought that was even remotely possible."

"Hey  _Angleterre,_ that's going a bit too far. I am a very wanted person—"

"Shut up Frog!" England then sighed, "And if you really  _must_ know America, I made the scones for France to see if I had improved.

"Don't get me wrong! I don't want to improve for your sake! It's for my own sake! So I can rub it in your fat face!

"But, yes. That's the reason."

* * *

America stood silent at England's words, a goofy smile playing on his lips. England was currently staring down at his feet, his face a flushed red. He looked adorable. America couldn't stop cooing at his lover's cuteness in his mind.

Along with being overwhelmed by England's lovely blush, America was also relieved to find out that England was indeed not planning to ditch their Special Relationship to hook up with France. That prospect had been absolutely terrifying!

"So…you did that all for me?" America asked.

"No!" England replied too quickly, "Didn't you hear me before? It's for me!"

 _So he really did do it for me,_ America thought before he reached out to pull England into a tight bear hug.  _He did it for me!_

"Ack—! Let me go, you git! You're suffocating me! Let go!"

America ignored England's complaints and continued smothering him.

"I love you!" America said, and England suddenly stopped scrambling in his grasp. "I love you so much! Please forgive me for what I said about your cooking" because America had finally realised that that was the reason why England started ignoring him "and please keep making your scones for me!"

England was quiet for a while, making America quite anxious about what England would say in reply.

"I love you too," England finally said back, voice soft. "Idiot."

"So you promise to keep making scones for me too?" America asked.

"Yes, yes, of course..."

"And make it your normal way too. Because I love them—even though they taste like shit."

"Belt up, you twat! Do you want to start this fight all over again?" England threatened.

America cleverly decided to direct England's attention away from that. "Uh—hey do you remember what I said before about a sorry surprise? Come see it with me?"

There was no hesitation this time. "Of course."

* * *

France watched the couple leave with approval in his eyes. Even though they had seemed to forget about the meeting, and more importantly him—what an insult; forgetting about this much gorgeous presence—being the country of love, he couldn't help but smile at the beautifully romantic scene.

"Ah  _amour!_ What a beautiful thing it is," he crooned dreamily.

Then he noticed that England's bag of scones were still in his hand.

Thank goodness he wouldn't have to eat it now! He was spared!

France sighed in relief. He couldn't believe how America could stomach it, and even wanted to eat it!

But he knew the reason why.

 _Love really is tasteless, isn't it?_  France mused.

_The End_


End file.
